When Together Ends
by jynkyg
Summary: It was a twin thing. It was always a twin thing. That’s just how it had to be. So what happened when it wasn’t?


A/N Hello! I realize I haven't been writing for a while - couple months, really - but it's all due to writer's block and matters of priority. ) I found this in the depths of my folder a couple days ago, and tried to rework it a bit, but still a bit sketchy. The ending's a bit awkward and abrupt, but my brain refused to cooperate. So here's what I ended up with. Enjoy!

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**When Together Ends**

It rained endlessly that spring.

It was Merlin's tears, Ginny Weasley liked to think, that plunged from the black, roiling skies, intent on drowning the world. It was a stinging, icy sort of precipitation, biting into exposed skin like each person had done it a great personal wrong.

The rain's companions, gray and gloom, did not fail to make their appearance, either; nor did they opt for a swift departure. Their presence was a perpetual escort for those who dared venture outdoors.

Ginny could not shake the feeling that all sense of the seasons had left the world as surely as it had left her. No matter how hard or how many times she attempted to conjure up images of the bright summer sun, or the stinging winter wind, all she was left with was a dismally overwhelming scene of gray. It instilled a devastating grimness in her heart, a heavy weight that only added to the burden of fright and weariness.

She supposed war had such effects on people.

_Damn the war._

She wasn't one of those delusional fools who had believed, at the beginning, thatthe conflict would end quickly. She hadn't let the image of a single, epic battle deceive her for a second.

But she had believed in victory. She had believed in Voldemort's eventual demise. She had held firm faith that when the battles were over, when the Death Eaters were howling in their rightful cells in Azkaban, she, her friends, and her family would go back to life as it had been. Unscathed and exultant in their success, they would revel in their fame and the world's newfound peace.

That was then.

That was at the beginning.

The irksome pest called Doubt had begun his worrying at Ginny's mind, at _everyone_'s mind, the night Dumbledore had died. Unexpected and destructive, it had shocked the Wizarding community to its core. She suspected there was not a Wizarding soul in the world that had not known Dumbledore, that had not heard his wise words, or felt soothed by his majestic, graceful presence.

Yet his grace, his wit, his bravery, his wisdom; all had failed in the face of death. Death seemed to favor those who were not ready to die.

Voldemort had launched his plans in full force after Dumbledore was buried. His so-called Dark Army swept the country like a furious deluge, leaving only dust to mingle with the blood and destruction it left in its wake. Death Eaters snatched money and magic right and left like Ginny had imagined Dudley Dursley grabbing for sweets.

The valiant Knights of Light, as they now called themselves, had not sat idly. Rousing immense groups of followers, rebel wizards and witches rose up violently against the incriminators. The Order of the Phoenix switched headquarters to Hogwarts, which had begun opening its great oaken doors to any and all refugees. Many brilliant minds joined the Order of the Phoenix, the leading magical opposition to Voldemort.

At first, their chances had seemed bright.

At first.

Slowly, steadily, though no soul dared mention it aloud, people began realizing the awful truth. The good guys were losing.

The wounds they inflicted upon the Dark Army were returned in the double. Beauxbatons fell. Madame Maxime, with her remaining students in tow, fled to Hogwarts. Wisely, Durmstrang followed suit; a week later, their stronghold, too, was burned to ashes.

People died. The Daily Prophet, which by some miraculous means was kept running, doled out papers that were half obituaries.

But to Ginny, it was all rather far away. Life was essentially the same, except that they were back in Hogwarts. Her family and friends were always by her side, and that was enough.

No – not really.

It was twins, really, that kept everyone going. They seemed to have some boundless fountain of energy in their souls, for no one else could work as tirelessly as they did to bring smiles, however fleeting, to the crushed faces around them. To others, they were the carefree Weasley twins, with no concern under their belts except what was for dinner. She sensed her brothers' newfound duty had became to joke around and laugh whenever opportunity gave them the chance, to spread their somewhat hollow, artificial mirth to others.

Yet sometimes, the gloom got to them, too. Sometimes – no, _always _– it hurt to see people die, to see families grieve. She knew. They were her brothers – her favorite, maybe, though with Bill, Charlie, or Ron around, she wouldn't have admitted it – and she could understand when they worried. They worried about their parents, their brothers and sister, their friends, their girlfriends. But they always worried together. She could hear them, sometimes, in their room, somehow comforting each other. They _needed _each other. One without the other was like calling a piece of bread with cheese on it a sandwich.

And they comforted her. More than anyone else, maybe second to Harry, the Chosen, Ginny knew there were people watching over her. And because the twins were her brothers, she suspected they loved her almost as much as Mum, or Harry. They were always there, to tell a joke, to wrap their arms around her shoulders, or discreetly shove her into a wall, knowing it was just another of Hogwarts' illusions.

Even when Molly Weasley, her _mother_, was killed, quietly and savagely on the streets of Diagon Alley, Fred and George were by her side. Somehow, someway, she could get through the nightmare alive as long as they were there. They grieved together, the three of them, slipping out sometimes at midnight to sit by their mother's grave, lost in memories and reassured by the others' presence.

Yet her mum's death seemed to have been the ultimate catalyst. Only six months old, the war had already taken its inevitable toll. The Order of the Phoenix was sorely depleted, weakened not only physically but mentally and emotionally as well. Following Mum was Sturgis Podmore, killed while protecting the Prime Minister of Muggles. The next to join the ever-growing ranks of noble dead had been Mad-Eye Moody, ex-Auror – as befit his scarred face and rough past, Mad-Eye had gone down cursing between bouts of wild laughter, taking more than a score of masked traitors with him. His body had never been retrieved, but the Knights' Graveyard, behind Hogwarts, nevertheless bore a tombstone marked 'Alastor "Mad-Eye" Moody'.

And then just yesterday, news had reached headquarters that Mundungus Fletcher was dead. Ginny hadn't seen him much, except those rare times he'd shown up for dinner at 12, Grimmauld Place, but she knew Fred and George had felt a twinge at this. They'd shared many a laugh with the scruffy thief, sniggering behind their mother's disapproving glare.

That night, four of their members had departed on a secret mission to scout the streets of London. Kingsley was the leader, accompanied by Tonks, Charlie, and George.

Fred had argued heatedly against George going. He would not have minded, of course, if he could have gone too, but a sudden illness on his part made Hermione put her foot down, and George reluctantly agreed to go alone.

Hermione had appointed herself the driving matronly power behind the Order after Mum's death, and one of the things she insisted fervidly on was attending dinner. Ginny was one of the few that knew the hours Hermione spent in the kitchens with the house-elves, losing herself in preparing meals for Hogwarts' residents. Today was no different; as the mission wasn't due to terminate until eight o'clock, Hermione had rounded up her friends, sat them down at a table in the Great Hall, and urged them to eat.

Ginny discreetly surveyed her companions, half-listening to Fred keep up as lively a banter as his sore throat would allow, feeling gloomier than ever.

Her father had ceased working for the Ministry for the duration of the war. Quite frankly, there was no need for an Office for the Detection and Confiscation of Counterfeit Defensive Spells and Protective Objects. Now, he stayed shut up in his room or could be seen shuffling with slumped shoulders down the corridors, a permanent sorrow stamped in his gentle, heartbroken eyes. And every lonely night, she could hear him sobbing in his room. A plate of potatoes and roast beef had been set in front of him by Hermione; the fork and knife lay untouched beside it, and Arthur merely looked down at the swirling glass of wine in his hand, sipping at it from time to time.

Bill and Ron sat beside each other, to Fred's right. Her oldest brother had sent his wife and his sister-in-law into hiding, adamant that they should lie low despite Fleur's protests that he needed her to look after him. Bill missed his wife sorely; Ginny could see the longing in his shielded gaze.

Ron accepted his food with a strained smile at Hermione. The two shared a whispered word and a quick peck before Hermione hurried away, back to the kitchens. Though Ginny would never say it, she was proud of her brother. The war had made the lanky, uncertain, boy into a hardened, somber man. Still, Ron felt the pressure and the depression, too, and coped by attempting to drown his insides each night.

Lupin, across from her, raised his glass of water to his lips every so often, exactly like a machine. His eyes were closed, and Ginny couldn't help but remember that night, so long ago, in the Hospital Wing when Bill had been attacked.

"_You see! She still wants to marry him, even though he's been bitten! She doesn't care!_"

"_It's different. Bill will not be a full werewolf. The cases are completely – "_

"_But I don't care either, I don't care! I've told you a million times…"_

"_And I've told _you _a million times that I am too old for you, too poor…too dangerous… I am not being ridiculous. Tonks deserves somebody young and whole."_

But deep inside, he loved her, and he knew it. He was just afraid to confess; interesting, how despite all their noble and righteous words,adults always found ways to excuse themselves. But it would hurt all the more to lose her now, knowing that he'd had all this time to tell her the truth but hadn't…

They all looked horrible. But Ginny had to admit, her stomach suddenly twisting in a way that would have contortionists envious, Harry Potter was the worst off of them all.

He worked so hard. There was no hint of the fumbling, innocent boy left in that straight-backed, almost military-like man sitting beside her. An uncertain half-smile hovered on his thin lips, overshadowed by his grim countenance as he obediently spooned potatoes into his mouth. He was everywhere, hatching plans, boosting morale, and offering a kind word to anyone who needed it, but Ginny knew that Harry was the one that least believed they would ever succeed.

It was the eyes that gave him away. Those green eyes, when not fired up in fury, were flat and empty, and what Ginny detested most was that that look was mirroredin everyone else. No one could escape the omnipresent despondency that had settled over the giant castle.

What few hours they spent together were the only times of reprieve for him, Ginny knew. They sat alone, in each other's arms, saying nothing and feeling everything.

And despite his easy mood and flippant talk, she could see that Fred was just as agitated, worrying about George.

Eight o'clock came.

And went.

They were gone _too_ long, and Ginny, as she kept fretful vigilance with Harry, Ron, Hermione, Fred, and Lupin by the oaken doors, began feeling sick. Fred was curled up right by the door, his head in his hands. She'd known he and George had always had a connection. She supposed it was a twin thing; they were just bonded, from the beginning. They did nothing and went nowhere without each other.

Until now.

Midnight seemed ages ago as the group finally returned – Kingsley and Charlie on their feet, one each in their arms, all drenched to the bone.

Harry gripped Ginny tightly. Ron howled with grief, falling to his knees. Hermione muffled a shriek.

Lupin and Fred froze.

Straggly pink hair lay plastered on a motionless head, cradled in the crook of Kingsley's scarred arms. A black cloak had been wrapped around the small, lithe body. Lupin uttered a strangled sound.

But Ginny could not, at that moment, care about Tonks.

Charlie's strong arms held the fourth limp body, cloaked and hooded, and she and Fred had eyes only for him.

It felt like the world was collapsing on her head.

She wanted to leap forward, to rip the hood off and seize the closed eyelids to wrench them open, to see the wicked glitter of amusement in those twinkling eyes. She wanted to hear the laugh; she wanted to see him stand up, on his own two feet, doubled over in laughter.

Because this just _had_ to be abloody joke.

Kingsley shook his head at Lupin. "She's not gone -not yet."

Ginny barely heard Lupin's reply, barely saw the shabby man take Tonks in his arms and bound off toward the hospital wing. Fred stared up at Charlie, daring him to say anything other than what Kingsley had said to Lupin.

Charlie's mouth stayed clamped shut in a dreadful, thin line. Grimly, slowly, he closed his eyes and let his shoulders sag. He jerked his head, letting a silent tear squeeze itself out from under the lids.

He reached up and slid the hood off of George Weasley's head.

* * *

A week later, the tides turned.

Bill killed Fenrir Greyback in a savage counterattack right outside Hogwarts, enabling Lupin to persuade the werewolves to ally with the Knights. Hagrid and Madame Maxime, unbelievably, bribed the giants into switching allegiances.

Riled up by the near-deaths that were the results of almost all their missions, Harry went on a rampage, somehow finding and destroying the Horcruxes and leading the slaughter of the Dark Army.

Harry and the Dark Lord dueled, and Harry won. Death Eaters were butchered. Dementors returned to Azkaban as meekly as children found guilty of breaking Mum's favorite vase. Trolls lumbered back into their mountains.

A month later, it was official.

The Great War was over.

It all seemed too good to Ginny. But it wasn't as if she cared.

There was a price for everything, her mum used to say. Nothing comes for free.

Especially victory.

How was she supposed to celebrate, when her heart was broken? It broke into smaller and smaller pieces, every time she saw her brother. He drifted, it seemed, between reality and dreams. He couldn't tell which was which, nor did it seem that he cared to find out. Or maybe he was lost, and he wouldn't even try to find the way out. For what would he do when – if – he got out? People left him alone, letting him wallow in his grief. Ginny left him alone, afraid to trigger something worse. It was unbearable to watch him, to see him turn around at someone's voice, his face so full of hope that his twin would be right behind him. There was nothing so wrong as the lines etched in his face, to see him wandering dazedly, a younger version of his father.

To see her family like this. This wasn't supposed to happen. That git Percy selling his soul to the Ministry, Mum and George gone, Dad and Fred lost. It wasn't ever supposed to be like this.

* * *

April Fools should have been banned.

It was vulgar. It was stupid, and crass, and just bloody _wrong._

He wasn't made to look gaunt, unkempt. He was supposed to be grinning in some lurid-green dragon-skin jacket, or maybe a blinding, mustard-yellow top hot, his mirror image beaming beside him. He shouldn't have been shuffling down dark corridors, warily passing each fluttering curtain or empty clanking suit of armor, fully expecting George to leap out and bowl him over with a wicked laugh. And this was his – no, no, _their_ – birthday. This was the day, so many years ago, he'd driven Mum and Dad crazy with the traps they set around the house, the day they hung Ron from the roof by his ankles, the day they put beetles in Percy's soup, the day McGonagall's hat flew off her head, transformed into a firecracker.

She watched him the entire morning, her surroundings blurry as she saw his slumped shoulders, his bowed head.

But it wasn't until he picked up a fake wand, thinking it was his, that he cracked. It wasn't until he stood there, gaping at the rubber chicken in his hand, that the tears came. Blindly, he flung the rubber chicken away and stumbled out of the empty classroom, past Ginny, who had been behind the statue of Wilfred the Wistful.

And she heard his sobs, his strangled whisper as he sprinted past her.

"_If you won't come to me, George, I'll go to you."_

* * *

His clothes were plastered to his skin, his hair dripping in his eyes, and the cold, trickling touch of raindrops on his face made him tremble. Shaking his head, he brought one unsteady hand up to wipe his eyes, unable to stop silent sobs from wracking his body.

He stood in the graveyard, where Molly Weasley was buried.

Staggering to the foot of the freshest mound of earth, he fell to his knees. His long-awaited tears mingled with that of the heaven's, falling feathery light from the skies. He reached into his pocket and drew his wand.

_Wait for me, mate._

The cold, wet tip was at his temple, gently pushing into his skull. He stared with blurry eyes at the gravestone before him.

_George Weasley_

_1978-2003_

_Beloved son, brother, and friend_

_Into paradise may the angels lead you._

The incantation was on his lips.

_I'm coming._

"_Avad-"_

"_Expelliarmus!"_

The spell was spoken deliberately and calmly, and Fred felt his jaw drop as his wand shot out of his hand.

Ginny Weasley placidly caught her brother's soaring wand, never halting in her stride toward him.

She stopped beside Fred, keeping her gaze on the ground. One hand was jammed in her pocket, and Fred could see the long scar winding its way up her arm to the shoulder – her souvenir of war. The other hand, clutching two wands, swept back a damp strand of hair out of her eyes.

She was as serene and composed as if dissuading suicidal brothers from throwing away their lives had always been a daily task. Pointedly ignoring Fred's accusing stare, she sat down next to him.

"Happy birthday," she said.

Fred was well aware of his open mouth, collecting rainwater as he gaped at his younger sister.

She was silent, offering no more words as she contemplated her brother's grave.

Fred finally found his voice.

"Give me my wand," he said roughly.

"Only if you swear you won't do any rubbish with it," was the cool reply.

He looked down at her in disbelief. "It's _my_ wand! I can do anything I want with it!"

"Like trying to kill yourself?"

"My brother's dead!" he snapped.

"So is mine," she said simply.

Fred halted, lost for words.

They fell silent again. The light splattering of raindrops hitting the ground filled the void between them.

His tears had ceased when Ginny had arrived, and now they started again.

"He's gone," he whispered, tasting the salt on his tongue. "For good."

Ginny's hand slipped into his, so small, yet so strong.

"I thought it – it was a joke," he mumbled, his voice breaking. He couldn't go on. All the desperation and anguish swept around him like a whirlpool, threatening to drag him under. Feeling limp and weary, he collapsed against his sister's shoulder, and he felt her shift to wrap her reassuring arms about him.

They breathed in unison, grieving in the rain, and though she said nothing, Fred felt that Ginny understood. She was one of the few that hadn't shown pity in her eyes, nor had she said, "I'm sorry about your loss," or any rubbish of the sort.

She just held him, and the rain continued falling. He sobbed until it was only rain streaming down his face again. He and Ginny leaned on each other, their eyes roving over the words engraved in the cold stone.

"Into paradise may the angels lead you," Ginny murmured.

"Paradise," Fred repeated, bitterly, wistfully.

"He's happy," Ginny said. "He's happy where he is. He's with Mum, and Dumbledore, Sirius, Mad-Eye…all of them."

"With them, and not me," Fred spat, unable to keep the acidity out of his voice. "He left me."

"Fred," Ginny said sternly. "Look, you git. I bloody _know_ he was _your_ twin and _your_ best friend. Everyone knows you were the infamous Weasley twins, pulling off loads of pranks and jokes, running away from Hogwarts, and opening up your own shop. He was part of your identity, and you were part of his.

"But you've got to get it through your thick head that he was a _Weasley._ He had a family, people he loved and people who loved him _besides you._ He was _my_ brother, too, he was Ron's brother, Percy's brother, Charlie and Bill's brother; he was Mum and Dad's son, he was a Gryffindor Beater, he was Alicia's boyfriend – he was so much more than _just your twin._

"And we all miss that idiot. We all cry, we all carry around that empty space inside he used to fill. _All_ of us."

Fred swallowed hard. "I've never been alone before," he whispered. "He was always there. Everything we did, said, thought, felt – it was _together._ We were supposed to be together…forever…"

Ginny rested her head on Fred's shoulder, accepting this, accepting his grief, trying to understand… After a while, she spoke up again. "I've never seen you two apart – 'when you find Fred, you find George,' Mum used to say. This was his path. Maybe you two walked the same one for twenty-five years, but you finally reached the fork in the road. However short his was, however long yours will be – they're different. You can't walk his for him, and he can't walk yours for you. You may be twins, but you're still individual people. You're Fred. He's George. George is gone. Fred's still here."

_I'm still here._

"I love you, big brother," Ginny whispered, hugging her brother tightly. "I've lost one. I don't want to lose another."

Silently, he hugged her back.

He would have to learn. He would have to get used to the wind at his back, not George. At least for Ginny's sake. George had always liked her best. She was the baby, the pretty little sister.

Maybe he'd learn, later.

Right now, it still hurt. He suspected it would, for a long time. He _hoped _it would. When it didn't hurt anymore…that would mean he'd forgotten, had moved on…and he didn't want to do that. Maybe he'd just have to keep the pain. Keep it as a memory, so he'd never forget…

But maybe he could accept it. Maybe he could be Fred Weasley, not Fred and George, not The Twins.

Maybe.

* * *

Review, anybody?


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